Ginny Weasley and the WhollyBlond Ponce
by FannyT
Summary: Ginny is surrounded by in her opinion morons, pillocks and generally nutty people. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Draco Malfoy keeps asking her out: again… and again… and again… What do you know I still don’t own Harry Potter.


Ginny Weasley and the Wholly-Blond Ponce

This is a tale about a list that was tragically short. It is also a tale about humanity, about lust, and about general stupidity. It is a tale about how much I love my boyfriend, because he is the best in the world. It contains hysterical fans, photography and Veelas (if any of these things disturb you, don't read on).

Mostly, though,it's just me whining.

………………………………………………….

I guess this whole story starts with the words "He's so gorgeous". They were said by three girls in my year, two Gryffindors and one Ravenclaw. Now, I did not particularly care about it, because 1) I did not agree with them, except for if they were talking about one certain boy by the name of Dean Thomas and 2) I did not care who they thought was gorgeous, except for if they were indeed talking about the already mentioned Thomas, in which case I would claw their eyes out because the only one who has the right to squeal starry-eyed nonsense about Dean Thomas is me and me only.

Luckily, most girls seem to have realized this. Otherwise the wear and tear on my nails would be quite staggering.

"Draco Malfoy, that is," said the Ravenclaw. (I think her name is Jana.) "Not Dean Thomas, Draco Malfoy. We were not talking about Dean Thomas in any way whatsoever, and we would never even contemplate calling him gorgeous. Not because he's _not_ gorgeous, because he is, _I've been told_, not having in fact looked at him myself, not because I didn't want to but rather because I just haven't chanced to ever look his way, that's all, but I'm sure that if he was gorgeous, which he with all probability is, not saying he isn't, his girlfriend would say that he's gorgeous quite often enough and we others would not have to bother with unnecessarily pointing out his gorgeousness."

She has certainly caught on fast, and you have to admire the way she got out of that sentence. Pretty bright, for a Ravenclaw.

Of course, being a Gryffindor I know that although Ravenclaw students are (supposedly) chosen for their intelligence, they are really quite stupid compared to us, the bold and the brave. At the same time they're nerdy, pansy-ass goody-two-shoes. Just as all Hufflepuffs are fat and tediously boring and tend towards nihilistic rule-abiding, and all Slytherins are (never really got this one, but it seems to be a fact) to-die-for sexy. If you don't fit in any of these categories you're a Gryffindor – read: normal person. Or, to quote Hermione in one of her more cynical phases, "Jack of all trades and master of none".

To quote Hermione in one of her even more cynical phases, "A bunch of bigoted bastards who whine about justice while shamelessly exploiting our fellow magical creatures, who can't be open to any minor change in the stigmatized daily life except if it's about bloody Quidditch – which, by the way, is an immoral game based in large part on the hunting to near extinction of one of our most exquisite magical creatures, which has bred generations of thugs and vandals and... where was I... oh yes, the truth about the brave and talented Gryffindors – who think we're better than the other Houses put together, despite proof to the contrary over several decades. Oh, and not one has read _Hogwarts: A History_."

(Of course, no one quotes her much when she's in that mood. Partly because they're not sure what all the long words mean.)

Well. To get back to "He's so gorgeous", which would shortly lead to my life getting very, very complicated. The girls next to me had for a couple of minutes after that particular comment been standing close together and whispering, but now they broke up the knot, each with a carefully judged casual expression.

"Oh, Ginny!" said Jana, in that 'oh my, were _you_ standing there right next to me?'-voice. She was also wearing that 'I will shortly be asking you a strange favour because what I'll be asking you to do is something I'm too afraid/lazy/smart to do myself'-smile.

I have always been able to read people well.

"How amazing that I should run into _you_ of all people," Jana continued, her smile winding up a notch or two.

"You did not run into me," I pointed out. "You stood next to me for ten minutes and suddenly decided to talk to me. If that's your idea of running you are so not winning the marathon this year."

"Look," said Jana, dropping the 'I'm innocently asking you to do something, between us friends, you know'-act and going straight into 'so how much do you want us to offer'-mode. (Told you I read people well.) "We want to get close to the hunk known to mortals as Draco Malfoy at any cost, and you're the cost. Name your price."

"Transfiguration and History of Magic," I replied quickly, having been through the process before and never passing up a chance to get out of homework when it presented itself. "And a star chart for next astronomy lesson."

The girls went into the knot again. After a while Jana reappeared.

"We can give you the Transfiguration assignment and the star chart's a piece of cake, but History is going to be harder," she said. "We can't tempt you with a Potions essay?"

"Sorry, not interested. Done that already." I thought for a while, and finally came up with another troublesome assignment. "I can settle for a Boggarts Discussion."

There was another brief and whispered conference and I could see Daisy, who's good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, nod – then Jana came back and stuck out her hand. "We have a deal. Give us the time for the assignments due-by date, a test of your handwriting and we'll have it done."

"Good." I shook her hand, satisfied at the thought of two weekends now assignment-free. And it was thus I found myself in the Slytherin common room two days later, dressed like a bad imitation of Rita Skeeter – may she be found by Alastor Moody, who I've been told collects beetles. (It's anyone's guess what he does with them, but knowing him, getting pinned up on a piece of cardboard would probably be the least worry of any beetle in his so called care.) I was accompanied by no less than five cameramen, or rather cameragirls – two each from Ravenclaw and my own house, and one rather shy Hufflepuff who I can _never_ remember the name of. Malfoy was delighted.

"Do you want me to pose now, or should we wait until after I've answered your bordering-on-rude personal and intimate questions?" he asked, clearly enjoying himself. (Something tells me he's used to incidents of the kind.)

"Questions now, I think, and they'll probably take pictures along the way," I answered. "It's for a soon-to-be-started school paper."

"It always is," said Malfoy, and _smiled_. The Hufflepuff dropped her camera, and didn't notice until Theodore Nott pointed it out.

"So..." I looked down at the list of questions I'd been ordered to get an answer to, on pain of badly written cheat assignments. "Their, I mean our, first question concerns your sexuality. What is it?"

Malfoy paused for a bit, pursed his lips (five girls sighed) and then grinned. "Since _you_ are the one asking," he replied, "I'm very, very straight."

"There have been rumours about you and Marcus Flint," I reminded him.

"Rumours, rumours..." said Malfoy loftily.

"The tabloids have been all about you and Harry for the past three months."

"You know what tabloids are like. Always thirsting for passionate love-hate affairs."

"You have been seen kissing Blaise Zabini, and he is most definitely male."

"Ah," said Malfoy, raising his eyebrows and smiling. "That's what _you_ think."

I gave up at that point. "I'm writing down "nymphomania" as the answer to that question. Next question: which part of your body are you most fond of?"

Malfoy answered something that made the Hufflepuff drop her camera again; Theo Nott picked it up and gave it back, gently telling her about the dangers of hyperventilation. I noted down "unrepeatable" and moved on.

"Your best feature? Personality-wise," I added quickly, seeing that he was glancing at the Hufflepuff and no doubt wondering whether her camera could survive a third fall onto the floor. The addition seemed to puzzle him and he thought for a long while.

"Does _being incredibly sexy_ count?" he asked finally. Since I was at that point still feeling pretty generous, I copied it down and asked question number four.

"Who, at this moment, are you lusting for?"

He started counting to himself quietly, ticking off fingers.

"Alright, alright, who are you lusting for _most_?" I tried, slightly desperately. He stopped counting, looked up and smiled – very, very broadly.

"You," he said.

I honestly thought Jana would at that point kill me.

………………………………………………….

Twenty-six questions (all more or less indecent, all answered more or less indecently) and about the same number of rolls of film later, I was getting heartily sick of interviewing Draco Malfoy and being hit on in the process. Lucky for me, the questions were just at an end and I would soon be able to get back to the Gryffindor tower and enjoy an afternoon without any assignment worry. You can guess three times who I was planning to spend my now free time with, although if you need three guesses you're a moron.

"And that concludes that," I finished quickly, after a last lust-filled question ("What is your most erogenous zone?") and a last lust-filled answer ("Anywhere you touch, gorgeous"). My accompanying girls were flexing their fingers, sore from pressing their camera button just one time too many, and the Hufflepuff girl had fainted after Malfoy offered a personal demonstration in answer to question 16 ("How good a kisser are you?"). She was currently under the care of Theo Nott, who seemed to have taken quite a shine to her. "Thank you very much for answering all our questions, don't know who wrote them but I might just shoot her when I find out..."

"It's a him, actually," Jana supplied helpfully, and I reminded myself that no one in our school is even remotely sane, with the exception of me and Dean, of course. Possibly Hermione as well, although she tends to go on rampages two months before exams and ask why no one is revising, which I'm afraid puts her just a little too close to the border-line between _normal_ and _raving loony_.

"Oh, before you go..." Malfoy smiled and stood up slowly, making one of the two Gryffindor girls follow where the Hufflepuff had already walked, or rather fallen – namely, blissful oblivion. "I have a question for my interviewer: are you single?"

"I have a boyfriend."

"I'm guessing that's a 'no', then, is it? Ah, just making sure." Malfoy mulled this information over for a while. "Your boyfriend – is he good-looking? I mean, the more the merrier..."

I think it was in that instance the legend of "Icicle" that has been plaguing the school ever since got started. I have been told I imitated one very well, you see.

"You. Are. Not. Going. Near. Dean."

"Is that a no as well?"

………………………………………………….

Once we got back to the Gryffindor common room a storm of activity started. The Hufflepuff girl Whatever-her-name-is was sent to start developing and mass-producing photos, Daisy started on my Defence Against the Dark Arts essay and organized the girls who'd be writing the other two assignments, and Jana started assembling the questions and answers my interview had achieved. It was to be comprised into _The Draco Malfoy Compendium, Volume Forty-three_, which would then be copied out and sold to any girl or boy with a spare Galleon and a pointy face fetish. I noticed that she subtly changed all answers along the line of "I'm partial to red-haired Gryffindors, if you must know, and by that I do _not_ mean Ron Weasley – although he is a good kisser, there's that to be said for him" to instead read something like "I'm madly in love with a certain blonde Ravenclaw beauty, around the height 1.68 m and with adorable eyelashes, name rhymes with Botswana". It didn't bother me, since I at the moment had more than enough on my mind. I was calculating.

At 14:25 the Care of Magical Creatures class ended, always punctual since Hagrid had taken at least some of Professor "I was scared away from my position of absolute power by a bunch of ponies with attitude" Umbridge's criticism to heart, and then there was the ten-and-a-half minute walk up to the castle, fourteen minutes back to common room if the staircases were in a good mood, add five more since they'd seemed slightly sulky on our way home from the Slytherin common room, allow for ten minutes delay in the form of Filch/Peeves/monsters/murderous sidekicks to evil lords or whatever else lay in wait throughout the many strange and completely unmotivated dark passageways of the school, three minutes outside the portrait hole trying to remember the password... alright, that made... ten-and-a-half plus fourteen plus five plus ten plus three made forty-two-and-a-half... which would mean that he should be stepping into the common room just... about...

I was on my feet in a second and next to the portrait hole in two.

...now.

"Hi Dean!"

"Hello," said Dean, with that puzzled frown he always reserves just for me. "Can't understand how you always know when I'll be here."

"Female instinct," I beamed.

"So you've said." Dean looked uncertainly behind him, where the entire Gryffindor Seventh Year was pushing impatiently to get into the common room. Hermione was somewhere in the middle and was shouting about death and damnation, which is Hermione-code for "oh no, I haven't even started on that homework we're supposed to hand in next month". He then looked down at me. He had to look down because I had wrapped my arms around his waist and was not about to let go that easily. "Uh, Ginny... you don't think you could let the others pass through?"

"Wanna hug you first," I replied. I am a Prefect, which means I'm allowed to do whatever I want because I have The Power of Authority and if anyone so much as thinks about messing with me I can dock points and put them in detention and this means that _I am always right_. (Yes, I'm aware that this is not the technical definition of a Prefect. I don't care. The law is what you make it, that's what my brothers have always told me.)

(Although Percy might have been talking about his rise in the Ministry.)

"If you don't let the others pass," said Dean, as Lavender poked him in the back with something sharp and Neville muttered about his success with his new pot plant Devil's Snare, "they'll mutilate me and you won't find anything larger than a limb to hug, if you're lucky."

This is what I love about Dean. He's always so _logical_.

"Alright," I agreed, stepping back and letting him – and the stream of enraged Seventh Years that followed after him – climb into the room.

"So how was your day?" Dean asked, once he had wiped the worst of the Chimaera blood off his face and hands (Hagrid had held yet another educational/lethal lesson, depending on which side of the fence you were on) and joined me in front of the fire.

"She flirted openly with Draco Malfoy," said Jana quickly and nastily, before I had time to answer. Damn. I had forgotten she was still there.

And that girl could just _forget_ about me ever helping her with anything, ever again.

Well... unless she asked forgiveness really nicely. Really nicely in this case means at least two History of Magic essays, with possibly a little Divination homework to show just how sorry she was.

Then, maybe.

"You did what?" That was my brother, who like the rest of the common room's inhabitants had stopped short in whatever he was doing as soon as he heard the words Draco and Malfoy. (All with the exception of Hermione, who had in the four minutes since she stepped through the portrait hole ploughed through half of _Vampires: A Sucker's Guide_ and was now muttering about garlic while scribbling down important points for her essay.)

"I did nothing of the sort," I replied to Jana's accusation, with dignity. "I asked him ridiculously stupid questions on the request of a couple of girls who will remain anonymous because you all feel hit anyway, and _he_ flirted with _me_, not the other way around."

"He did _what?_"

My explanation caused if possible even more outrage. Harry, to pick an example at random, burst into tears and rushed up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. Colin Creevey ran up and started hitting me (I didn't notice this for a while), asking what I meant by ridiculously stupid and he'd put a lot of effort into those, damn me. Hermione flicked a page and mumbled something about holy water, and by this she did not, unlike Parvati and Lavender who were discussing something similar two paces off, mean water touched by Draco Malfoy.

"What's so special about Draco Bloody Malfoy anyway?" I asked out loud, unheard by everyone but my dear darling boyfriend.

"Dunno," was his answer. "He's pretty hot though. Although not as hot as you! Not as hot as you! Not as hot as you!"

"That's sweet of you," I said, and lowered the cauldron again.

………………………………………………….

I wasn't graced with Draco The Ponce's company again for one and a half week. After that brief period of joy, I ran into him outside the Great Hall, where he was leaning sexily for a couple of Ravenclaw Fourth Years. He'd made a roaring trade in standing for photos over the last two or three years (seven Sickles a pose, bargain prices every first Sunday of the month). Say what you will about the pointy-faced pillock, but he knows how to fully take advantage of his fellow students' incredibly bad taste in men.

"Want me to take my tie off?" he was asking as I approached. "It'll be three Sickles extra in that case."

"Do, do," chorused the Ravenclaws, already digging through their pockets. At that moment, however, he spotted me and straightened up.

"Sorry, just had a change of plans. Another time. Heeeey, beautiful!"

"Heeeey, I so don't want to talk to you." I turned my back on him pointedly, realized this left me facing back up the staircase, and kept turning until I faced him and the Hall again. He looked faintly puzzled.

"Did you have repressed fantasies about becoming a ballerina when you were young? Just thought I'd ask."

"What do you want?" I thought it best to get it over with quickly, to then be able to dodge him and join Dean for dinner.

"You," grinned Malfoy. "No wait, don't leave! I was really wondering..." He shook his hair down in front of his eyes and looked up at me through the fringe, pouting. "Will you go on a date with me?"

"I believe I've told you, I have a boyfriend."

"Oh, you can bring him along too. I don't mind."

"Goodbye."

"No, come on!" Malfoy took hold of my arm, gazing imploringly at me. "My father is a Death Eater and in jail – I need to talk about this traumatic experience to a listening, understanding and above all comforting person."

There were mutters around the Entrance Hall that suggested about fifty people had just volunteered their services. I did not join them.

"I'm late to my meeting with Dean. Scram."

"Hey! I'm being angsty here for you!"

"I'm not very into angsty."

"In that case I can change. I'm flexible."

"Go away, I find you disturbing."

"Go out with me."

"No."

"_Please_ go out with me?"

"No!" I threw my hands up in exasperation. (I love that word. I really do. However, the other day I said it out loud and guess what? It sounds stupid.) "There are four hundred or so other students who'd welcome you more than I, pick one of them and leave me alone! I don't get why you're so bloody set on dating me anyway!"

Malfoy shrugged and chewed a fingernail, in an absentminded sort of way. He thought for a while and seemed like he was about to reply, but at that moment there was a scream on the lines of "NNOOOOOOOOOOO!" and what looked like a small Kamikaze war pilot (this was not as far off the target as you would think) launched itself at Malfoy, trying to forcibly extract his fingers from between his teeth.

"Draco's hands are supposed to be clean and beautiful!"

"Draco's hands are supposed to be whatever and wherever Draco tells them to be. Right now Draco's hands are supposed to be inside his mouth," frowned Malfoy, trying to tug his fingers free.

"No no no no no!"

"Cho Chang?" I asked in disbelief as I suddenly recognized the figure clinging desperately to Malfoy's arms. "Weren't you supposed to have left school last year?"

"Oh, hi Ginny." Cho turned towards me and let go of Malfoy (his fingers flew to his mouth again so quickly I could have sworn magnetism was involved). "Well, I... um... I felt like starting work pretty quickly so I, er, got a job with... uh, helping Madam Hooch with flying lessons! That's it. Yeah."

"I recognize you," said Malfoy brightly. "You were the one outside the changing rooms taking all those pictures after our Quidditch practice. Did you get any from my left side? I have a very interesting birthmark right here – " he hitched up his shirt slightly and pointed, and fifteen unprepared students fainted from sudden lack of oxygen – "which I thought might liven up the photos a bit."

I had just been considering adding Cho to my list of normal people – so depressingly short – but changed my mind quickly. "Cho, not you too?" I asked, in despair. "And after it seemed like you and Harry finally got along so _well_, too. You seemed to have such a lot in common..."

"We did," said Cho. "Malfoy."

"Hey, about those photos – do I get a royalty?" asked Malfoy, and I decided to leave before I was infected with stupidity (Cho seemed very contagious). However, Malfoy quickly stepped forward and blocked my way again.

"I just had an idea," he grinned. "How about... you go out with me."

"Are you deaf? ...I'm going to join MY BOYFRIEND Dean for dinner now. Try not to ask me out again during the fifty metre walk to the Gryffindor table."

"Speaking of Dean," said Malfoy conversationally, "did I tell you that I dated him last year?"

………………………………………………….

"He will be alright," said Madam Pomfrey, waving her wand over the fourth dislocated joint. "Well, when I say alright... better make that 'probably alright'. However, I would worry more about yourself, dear." She let a few drops of blue potion fall onto some of the worst bruises, checked Malfoy's pulse again to make sure it was stable, and grinned at me. I swallowed.

"Er... everyone doesn't necessarily have to know it was me, right?"

"There were 87 witnesses," said Madam Pomfrey calmly.

"Oh. But... I mean, I was provoked. Sort of. They'll understand that, surely... won't they?"

"You know that Third Year who tripped and accidentally spilled coffee over Mr Malfoy last year?" asked Madam Pomfrey, checking one of the bones she had just mended to see if it was setting properly. I nodded. "Had him in here for a week before I got that darn coffee pot out of his throat."

I took the hint.

"Is there a second way out of here?"

"Thought you'd never ask, dear." Madam Pomfrey abruptly dropped Malfoy's leg back on the bed and pointed at a painting of a newt (don't ask me what a newt's doing in the sickbay, I'm not the interior decorator). I nodded, feeling I knew what was happening now.

"I get it – this is one of those _kiss the frog and it turns into a handsome prince who will help you with all your troubles_-situations, right?"

Madam Pomfrey gave me a blank stare. "No," she said, "this is one of those _kiss the newt and it turns into a door guard_-situations. Incidentally, the reverse is true as well: if you kiss a door guard it – I mean he, sorry – turns into a newt. You might want to remember this next time you sneak into that dance place in Hogsmeade."

I considered the information, mentally transforming the guards at The Boiling Kettle into four-legged amphibians. "It would be an improvement," I nodded.

At that moment there was a raw shout from a point some floors below and Madam Pomfrey waved me on. "You want to hurry a bit, dear," she said. "You'll find Firenze by Hagrid's cottage, he promised to help. Now be off with you! They're only on the fourth floor yet, so you have seven, maybe eight minutes. There seems to be quite a lot of them though." She stopped, cocked her head and listened intently, and then nodded. "Yes, and they have pitchforks, too. Characteristic pitchfork stump there, you always get it in people who've never held one before but know it's expected of them."

"OK," I said, not really sure of what was happening. Madam Pomfrey shook her head.

"Don't I keep telling you that you have to hurry? Go and kiss that newt! If that mob gets hold of you, we won't just be looking at a coffee pot or so, if you catch my drift."

If that drift had been a Quaffle, even my brother would have been able to catch it. "Thank you," I mumbled, and hurried to get out of there.

………………………………………………….

Ronan was surveying the stars. He did this a lot, which is why he was sort of good at it. However, it did have the nasty side effects of making him duller than a hung-over Millicent Bulstrode when it came to anything closer than five light-years away.

Of course, this wasn't always necessarily a _bad_ thing.

"Hullo Ronan!" said Firenze, clopping into the meadow. Ronan didn't move. He had fixed his neck at a nice 84 degrees angle and wasn't about to change it that easily.

"Mars is bright tonight," he said.

"So true, so true," nodded Firenze, who had a tendency to confuse Mars with the Dog Star and had failed Advanced Astronomy when he was a foal. He thought the greeting was a bit outdated though, since the older centaur had been using it for six years, but Ronan had found it worked pretty well for impressing some kids and centaurs have never been ones for breaking a winning concept. "You know what else is bright? There's this mob tonight, see, and their torches are pretty – "

"The heavens are wroth," said Ronan, giving no sign that he'd heard.

"Them, too?"

"Do you know, when we gaze up at the stars we see history?" said Ronan. Firenze paused and looked puzzled.

"Really? I thought we saw the future. Should I change my teaching curriculum?"

"No, I mean..." Ronan's brow creased slightly in what might have been annoyance. "The light from the stars takes years to get here. That bright shining star we see up there could in fact have gone out years or even hundreds of years ago, but its light still reaches us. One of these stars is going to go out tonight."

"Which one?"

"That one..."

"That one up there?"

"No, there."

"What, there?"

"No, there. Next to the one you're pointing at."

"Ah, you mean that one?"

"No, _that_ one."

"That one?"

"No! Read my finger! Up there!"

"Oh." Firenze frowned up at the point of light. "That one's going to go out? Bloody amazing that you know exactly which one."

"It is said that on a night such as this," Ronan continued, slightly louder, "when a star at last winks out, the wisdom of the centaur that prophesized its passing shall come to those who watch it. The wisdom of a philosopher long dead..."

Firenze cleared his throat. "You know, it's funny you should mention dead," he said.

"Hm?" Ronan slowly, very slowly shifted his vision from the sky back down to earth. (A complicated motion. A young centaur who had done this too quickly once had only narrowly avoided breaking his neck.) "Now that you say it... Bane said something... weren't _you _supposed to be dead if you ever showed your face in the Forbidden Forest again?"

"What? Oh, no, no, no!" said Firenze, waving his hands vaguely. "No, you must have misheard him. He said that I'll have to _eat bread_."

"Is that so?"

"Easy mistake to make. Don't blame yourself. Ah-ha. No, when you say dead, what I'm thinking about is this girl here who's probably going to be officially lynched if she can't find a hiding place for a couple of days. We have to help her out..."

"Do we?"

"Yes!" Firenze sighed. "Hagrid said he'll withdraw our clover supply if we don't."

"Oh," said Ronan, trying to get his mind around this. Since he wasn't really used to considering anything smaller than a constellation, it seemed to be hard for him. "Well, she'll just have to bunk with the female centaurs or something then."

"Well, yes," agreed Firenze, rolling his eyes. "Only there's this small problem with that, you see. The problem being that we no longer HAVE any female centaurs."

Ronan frowned. "Why on earth not?"

"They all left in disgust when you started the MAC."

"The what?"

"The MAC!" Firenze hesitated. "You know… the organisation you started… the Masculinistic Association for Centaurs? Because you felt oppressed by all the feministic networks? You… _did_ start that, didn't you?" He had a sudden fear that he'd dreamed the whole "Househusbands! Throw off your chains and defy the matriarchy!"-thing, and couldn't understand why on earth he would dream about Bane's proclamation that the way to freedom lay through burning underwear (and the subsequent raid of Gladrags' Wizardwear to find some).

He wondered if it was symbolic, and in that case for what.

Thankfully, Ronan seemed to realize what he was talking about. "Oh, that!" he exclaimed happily. "Brings back memories, doesn't it… anyway, that organisation was terminated because Magorian didn't like it. He claimed it didn't agree with his inner woman."

"He has one of those?" Firenze asked in panic. He suddenly decided that he would have preferred it to be a dream, on the whole.

"Yes… apparently she's zebra, five foot high and a champion heavy weight-lifter."

"Let's hope he never lets her out," muttered Firenze, and then turned his mind back to the trouble at hand. "Anyway, what should we do about this girl now? She needs a hide-out, if just for a couple of days. I was thinking Grawp might take her in…"

"What? No way!" protested Ronan. "There's one with his head in the clouds…" He stopped briefly, to chuckle at his joke. Firenze didn't. It was the fifteenth time he heard it. "No, I think the Thestrals would be better. Alright, so they're invisible bringers of death and bad luck… and they feast on flesh… and they can't do a nice canter for love or money… but they are hospitable!"

"Right up to the point where they realize you have no food and decide to try a nibble of you instead," said Firenze sourly. He'd had a Thestral in his class at school. It had stolen his lunch and then kicked him in the stomach because it was vegetarian. "No, I don't think so. How about that vampire who just moved in? Seemed a decent sort."

"Is the girl a virgin?" asked Ronan suspiciously. "Got to consider that, you know. I mean, they all _say_ they have substituted for coffee, but get an innocent, blood-filled girl within five hundred metres and you can practically _see_ the teeth growing."

"Well…" Firenze pursed his lips. "The mob was screaming about her molesting Draco Malfoy, so she might be out of the danger zone, but… you're right, it's best not to take risks. Who else have we got, then? That colony of Jarveys, maybe? They're pretty welcoming to strangers."

"I don't think it's proper to submit a child – and a girl, at that! – to that kind of language," said Ronan sternly. Not for the first time, Firenze wondered if the other centaur was still stuck in the nineteenth century.

"She is a Sixth Year at Hogwarts, Ronan. If you think she hasn't heard swearing by now you're calling her deaf, which is kind of insulting."

"They cheat at poker, too," grumbled Ronan, not one to give in that easily. Firenze threw his hands up in defeat.

"Fine! Then where do you want me to take her? I mean, she can't stay with you because you detest humans, you've rejected all my suggestions… what's left?"

Ronan hesitated. "Well…" he said slowly, "there is one last alternative."

…………………………………………………

And that was how I ended up in the single man's heaven, being introduced to forty-seven identical, blonde chicks with extremely long legs. No, it was not the Miss Forbidden Forest contest – it was the only Veela community in Britain.

"From Hogwarts, are you?" asked Veela no. 14. (No, I did not learn their names. And before you pass judgement, try it yourself.) "I hear your boys are gorgeous."

"Yes, we've had a couple of them out here in the forest," another agreed, and turned to her neighbour. "Hey, do you remember those two who used to come all the time… what were their names…"

The neighbour, no. 42, squealed. "You mean Sir Frederick and Sir …uh… George? They always said they'd come back and take me away one day…"

"Yes, only they had all those dragons to fight…"

I made a mental note to write and tell mum that when Fred and George were forever banned from the Forbidden Forest for wrestling with dangerous creatures, the "dangerous creatures"-part did not mean werewolves.

"Well, enough about us," said no. 9, scooting closer to me. "What's up with you and The Boy Who Lived? OK, he doesn't seem to have much of a Life, but the famous thing is still pretty cool."

"I heard he had something going on with a Chinese girl," said no. 23 before I had time to answer.

"Ooh, a rival?" asked no. 6 excitedly.

"Don't trust those black-haired ones," warned no. 19, and five others nodded in agreement. (Blondes are so biased.)

I blinked, several times. "Man, you guys really are gossips, aren't you?" I asked in disbelief. Veelas no. 5 through to 27 shrugged, in tandem.

"Passes the time between seducing boys and beating up leprechauns," said no. 11.

"Anyway, I'm dating Dean Thomas," I answered the original question. "I'm not interested in Harry Potter any way whatsoever, except possibly as a date for my year mate. (She's insane, by the way. That's why I thought of it from the beginning.) However, he – like the rest of the school, with the exception of a few normal human beings and Filch's cat – is obsessed by a certain blond idiot."

"Don't insult blondes," said no. 36 sternly.

There was a pause, in which I reflected over blondes and bubble-heads in general. Then I realized this might be a good opportunity to find out the truth about something I'd been wondering about.

"Hey… I've been thinking, are there any Veela men?" I asked. "I mean, how are Veelas born?"

"We are born of men's sexual desires," said no. 21.

"The Veela world must me sooo over-populated."

"Well," said no. 4, "to be a bit more specific: we are born of men's sexual desires _satisfied_."

I worked this one out after some thinking. "So what you mean is… they have sex with you and you then have babies."

"Exactly!" smiled no. 4.

"In other words, just like humans."

"Really?" frowned no. 47. "I've always thought you need alcohol to reproduce, for some reason."

"Not necessarily. It can help the process, though."

"Oh. Well then, if you say it is so, we work like humans. Cool."

"Then why aren't there any Veela guys?"

"Well you see," said no. 4 helpfully, "all girls who are born from Veelas automatically become ones themselves. But the boys are just pretty."

"Oh, I get it!" I said, feeling pleased. "Because there are all these rumours about this guy in school called Draco Malfoy – that's the idiot I mentioned before, by the way – having Veela blood in him, so I wondered if that was possible."

"I don't know," said no. 37 and shrugged. "I haven't ever shagged a Malfoy. How about you?"

"I haven't either," said her neighbour. There were similar mutters of _nope, me neither_ among the rest of the Veelas.

"Wouldn't mind, though," said no. 15 suddenly. "Their youngest spawn is becoming seriously yummy. Give him a few years and he's mine."

"Or mine," chorused 21-34.

"Mmmm, blonde hair and silver-grey eyes," gushed 10-18.

"Love that saunter," drooled 39-46.

"Incidentally," I cut in bitingly, "He's the one called Draco and I've mentioned him a couple of times already, always in conjunction with 'idiot'. And besides," I added accusingly, "I didn't know Veelas could even feel sexual attraction."

This statement got me forty-seven blank stares.

"We're sex demons," said no. 35 finally. "It'd be pretty boring if we didn't."

……………………………………………………

Malfoy looked up happily as I entered the sickbay two weeks later. "Ginny! You've come to visit me! It's alright, I forgive you," he said graciously, and waved his hand imperiously for a chair. Two house elves appeared bearing one within seconds. (He has quite a complicated gesture code for different commands – all new house elves have to learn it by heart.)

"I did not come to apologize," I snapped. "I came to tell you that if you don't stop your fan club from egging me every time I venture out of my dorm, I'm going to break your left leg as well."

Malfoy shrugged, a shrug that told me just how much faith he had in Madam Pomfrey's healing abilities. (I'll use this opportunity to once again shamelessly point out how fabulous I am at reading people.)

"I'll dislocate all your fingers, one by one."

Malfoy scratched his neck idly.

"I'll ransack your room and sell your boxers to the Creevey brothers."

Malfoy yawned.

"I'll cut your hair. Badly!"

Malfoy blinked. "Why does everyone seem to think I care so much about my hair?" he asked with a frown. "I mean, have I ever expressively said that I can't live without my hair? How did this rumour get started? Every time anyone threatens me, the always culminate by saying something about my hair. I don't care about my hair! You can dye it black for all I care! Hey," he added suddenly, "that'd be kind of cool, actually. If you do that _and_ cut my hair badly I'll look like Harry Potter. Wait, you were hot on him for a while, weren't you?" He grinned, suddenly seeing a new possibility.

I told him just what I would do to him if he ever insinuated a relationship between us again (using very colourful and inventive language, having gotten some very helpful pointers when I visited the Jarveys during my week of exile).

"Would you care to discuss that further over dinner?" asked Malfoy.

……………………………………………………

I was in a very bad mood as I left Malfoy and walked to my Herbology lesson. Being flirted with is considered nice by some people (being flirted with by Malfoy is considered equal to dying and going to heaven by some people), but I'm not one of those people and I HATE IT. I was just contemplating how to kill him without getting the blame when I ran into Luna "Loony" Lovegood, the girl I had been trying to set Harry up with for two years.

"Oh, hello," I said. "I hate Malfoy. Just thought I'd tell you."

"Who's Malfoy?" asked Luna.

I gaped, for several seconds. "You have no idea how happy that makes me, hearing you ask that," I said finally. Really, for a nutty person she is surprisingly sane. "You just earned yourself a place on my list of not-completely-cracked people, Luna."

"Who's Luna?" asked Luna.

I went and had a good cry in the bathroom.

……………………………………………………

A month passed. Malfoy got out of sickbay and could hardly get to his classes for all the people crying at his feet and saying they were so deliriously happy he wasn't dead. And whenever he had a spare minute, eleven times out of ten he used it to ask me out. Dean didn't seem to much care but was somewhat amused. (I love Dean. He's always so _calm_.) However, I didn't feel I could take much more – and finally snapped one afternoon, when a Wailer arrived at my table in the library and started yowling out _Stand by me_.

If you haven't ever received a Wailer and are wondering what I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky. It's like a Howler, only worse, because it sings instead of shouts.

"WHY DOES DRACO MALFOY WANT ME?" I shouted out loud as the last "stand by meeee" faded away, raising my eyes to the heavens. There was silence for a while as all the other students in the library looked at me, and then Neville Longbottom leaned across and gently patted my arm.

"Don't feel embarrassed," he said. "I have daydreams too."

"I hate you."

"Love makes us bitter," said Neville poetically, and went back to the letter he was working on. It was scented, and started with "Beloved Draco".

Hermione was sitting nearby, doing something as original as reading. "I have been considering adding you to the list of people I won't book beds for at St Mungo's," I told her. I felt she had the right to know, and I also felt I had to talk to someone who would not make the sign of the Holy Pointy Nose after every second sentence. "Only I can't at the moment, because I'm to busy figuring out how to subtly torment a certain blond boy. I'm not talking about Zacharias Smith."

Hermione looked up from her book and sniffed. "Well, if all you wanted to know was why Draco Malfoy is set on you and you only, you should have come to me from the start instead of prancing around and feeling sorry for yourself. Really," she rolled her eyes, "isn't it _obvious_?"

Hermione says that a lot. "You're supposed to put the asphodel in beforethe snakeskin, isn't it _obvious_?" "Professor Trelawney is a complete fraud, isn't it _obvious_?" "The disembodied voice that only Harry can actually hear belongs to a kind of giant snake sighted about twice every century, isn't it _obvious_?"

"You mean you know?" I exclaimed, standing up so fast I turned my chair over.

"Of course." Hermione licked her finger and turned a page in her book with agonizing slowness before answering. "It's one of those clever laws of teenage nature. You're one of the only ones in school who does not go rabid whenever you see him; therefore of course you are the one he wants." She rolled her eyes again for emphasis and turned her complete attention back to the book. I waited for a while and then realized no more words of wisdom would be forthcoming.

"What, you mean that's it?" I asked.

"Yes," said Hermione, a shade testily. "Do you have to have a doctor's thesis on it?"

"But..." I hesitated. "But you don't want him, right? And he never bothers you..."

"He asked me out every day for the duration of four and a half months last year," said Hermione. She smiled, smugly. "He gave up eventually."

"When?"

"When he discovered she sleeps with her spell books," said Ron absent-mindedly. "I think losing to _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ hit him hard, he hasn't ever tried since."

……………………………………………………

So, since I was down to the last of my imagination, and patience, I decided to go for Hermione's and Ron's advice and did something I'd had sworn to myself I would never, _ever_, do.

I simpered.

I had decided to place myself very strategically right outside the Slytherin common room, but realized as I arrived that this was not very strategic at all since the hallway outside was thronged with people bearing "We love you, Draco!"-placards. Next I tried the Potions class room, and was thrown out by Snape for interrupting him in the middle of composing a love song. I then went to all of Malfoy's normal haunts, but still without success.

I finally ran into him by accident in the Charms corridor, where he was chatting up Professor Flitwick. And it was then at last I had the chance to perform the earlier mentioned simper.

"Draaaaco," I said, batting my eyelashes and bouncing up and down a little. (I'd practiced this on Dean and he'd yawned, which was a good sign. He always yawns when he sees me. It's his way of showing affection.) "I'd just like you to know that I have thought a bit and…" I stopped, suddenly fearing I would not be able to go through with this. I had an irrepressible urge to gag. But the image of being plagued by endless flirting for the rest of the year rose in my mind, and I strengthened my resolve. "I have thought and decided that yes, I'd like to go out with you. Please go out with me, Draco!"

Malfoy looked at me for a long, long time with an air of bewilderment. I did a little victory dance inside my head. And then Malfoy lit up so brightly I started wishing for sunglasses.

"I _knew_ you'd finally see straight and realize that we're made for each other!" he exclaimed.

"Eh? Wha… wha… what?" I stammered. Alright, it wasn't a very understandable sentence. His wasn't either, so it's not more than fair.

"Come let us rejoice in the beauty of our love!" said Malfoy, and swept me up in his arms.

"The hell? Let me go – " I stopped suddenly, as I beheld two evil grins materializing out f the darkness and like the Cheshire cat's bringing their bodies along slightly afterwards. The bodies in question belonged to my brother and his fellow devil-in-disguise, Hermione.

"Help!" I shouted. "It didn't work! Help me!"

"Don't feel like it," said Hermione lazily. Ron yawned. (But unlike Dean, he wasn't showing any kind of affection, I'm sure.)

"But you said he'd leave me alone!" I wailed, while trying to free myself. Then the realization hit me. "You set me up."

"Yup," said Hermione, without any trace of remorse. I stared.

"What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing," said Ron. "But I've grown up with five elder brothers. I have a lot of pent-up frustration and you're the only one of my siblings I can safely terrorize without fear of retribution. Because you are younger, and weaker, and a girl to boot, I recently decided to get my kicks out of delivering to you all the revenge I could not get on my older brothers. Oh, and Hermione is just sadistic."

"Mwaha," said Hermione.

"Go – !" My very indecent reply (Ronan would have felt faint) was cut short as Malfoy dropped me, quite suddenly. I directed the stream of profanities I had been planning to cover Hermione and may-he-be-cursed-with-maroon-sweaters-for-the-rest-of-his-life-Ron with towards the Slytherin instead, and was quite surprised when he frowned at me.

"Who are you again?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Did I kiss you?" Malfoy inquired. "I'm asking because I've raised the cost on kisses during this time of influenza. You're aware of this, right? I _hate_ giving credit." He peered at me closely, still frowning. "It's… Vinnie, right?"

"Ginny," I said, feeling dazed.

"Oh, right," said Malfoy quickly. "I knew that."

"And she paid in advance," Hermione cut in suddenly. "Thanks for your time."

"No problem!" answered Malfoy, and beamed. "See you around!" He danced off, humming "I'm so pretty" and twirling every now and again. It took me a while to process what had just happened.

"OK…" I said, "what the hell just happened here? I thought you two were black-hearted bitches set on ruining my life, and then you helped me out after all? Why? And Hermione – I'm taking you off my list."

"Well," said Ron pensively, "we were hoping to make your life a misery, because we are strange that way. However, things didn't work out as we had planned. Hermione, any idea why?"

"Hm." Hermione put on the expression always used to contemplate a problem. She is very fond of it. "I think the problem lies in that it was me who suggested what she should do with Malfoy. I mean, _I am always right_. Simple fact of nature. So when I said Malfoy would leave her alone if she flirted back with him, that's what happened."

"Rats! Foiled by our own devious plan," said Ron, smacking his fist into his other palm. "And I was so looking forward to making Harry cry when we told him they'd hooked up, too."

"So what do we do now?"

"I'm still frustrated," said Ron.

"I'm still sadistic," said Hermione.

"Let's go and set McGonagall and Mrs. Norris on each other while we figure out something new. Nothing like a good catfight to get the grey cells working."

And they left, leaving me to ponder over humanity. I rather preferred the Veelas, by comparison.

………………………………………………….

My life since then has been calm. Malfoy doesn't seem to know who I am anymore, and it's as if a heavy, blond weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I burned my list after realizing me and Dean were the only ones left on it, and wondered if burning the school as well would count as arson – and in that case could I plead that it had provoked me by containing such an outrageous lot of stupid people? Yesterday I received two assignments back with full marks, and hints about top grades in the concerned subjects. It made me philosophize on our education system.

Well, the girls did a good job, at least.

I invited myself and Dean to the Veelas for a week because blonde or not, they're better than the company I currently keep. Dean was so happy when I told him this that he kissed me. (He simply loves spending time with me.) We're leaving tomorrow, and he has been spending the entire day today choosing clothes. He never usually cares much about how he looks in front of me. I guess he's just falling even deeper in love with me.

Jana recently started a new Draco Malfoy fan club – the twenty-fourth, and just as successful as the earlier ones. Theo Nott joined it, and spends his time staring at the secretary. She is Hufflepuff and a good photographer, and I still don't know her name.

Ron and Hermione were caught in the act spray-painting rude words in green and silver all over our common room. Apparently they'd been looking forward to the subsequent Gryffindor vs. Slytherin fight. They got off with writing twenty lines each, Ron blaming his actions on bad heritage and Hermione threatening to resign as Head Girl if she wasn't let off. I wrote to mum and told her that when Witch Weekly painted Hermione out to be a scarlet woman, they picked the wrong colour. She is a black (and magic, incidentally) woman, and she is so, so evil.

And as for me, I'm wondering if Fred and George need a helper in their joke shop so I can leave school at the end of the year. When I told Dean this he said, "You're planning to leave school? Hooray!" He supports me in _everything_.

I love Dean.

_THE END_

………………………………………………….

Now, some of you may say things like "This has no real plot", "What a crappy ending" or "What the hell was she thinking about anyway?" I won't contradict you. This was mainly a way for me get some random sarcasm out of my head and stop directing it at my friends and family (who frequently tell me I'm too mean).

Yes, the title is a very sad take on _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_. I've never been good at titles. I am fully aware of this fact. (Hint: don't remind me of it. I'll cry.)

What else, what else… nope, can't think of anything more to say. Tally ho!


End file.
